Pieces of Happily Ever After

by Irene Zutell

  “Do you ever listen to anything else,” Johnny asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some of the tunes are pretty catchy. Who can resist Angela Lansbury singing ‘Beauty and the Beast’? But this princess music has been on the entire trip. I was going to say something earlier, but you looked kinda cute, singing along to it.”

  “What? I have?”

  “Yeah, you seemed really into it, so I decided not to say anything.”

  Gabby’s princess music CD has been on the whole time and I didn’t even know it. This happens to me often lately. I’ll be so preoccupied that I don’t notice I’m listening and singing along to Gabby’s music even when she’s not in the car. Sometimes I’ll catch myself, shut it off, and scan the radio for something more, well, age appropriate, as they say. I used to be very current, when it came to music. And I had eclectic tastes—I listened to rap, country, pop, anything really. Now I can’t name any top ten hit, but I recite every song ever recorded by The Wiggles or Hannah Montana. Truth be told, lately I like Gabby’s princess CD more than most top ten songs.

  I move to eject the CD but Johnny puts his hand out to block me.

  “Wait a second, they’re playing our song.”

  “Huh?”

  He turns up the volume. It’s “Once Upon A Dream,” the song Sleeping Beauty sings to Prince Phillip. Johnny starts belting out the lyrics.

  “ ‘I know you, I walked with you, once upon a dream . . .’ ”

  I laugh, thinking he’s just mocking the music. But then it hits me with a wallop. This is what Gabby sang that day when the paparazzi were staked outside my house. This was the song Gabby trilled out while I chased her around the lawn until she banged into Johnny. And when she finally stopped, I reamed out Johnny, telling him how utterly loathsome he was.

  It was one of the worst days of my life. Maybe the worst ever. And now I am remembering it and laughing at the same time. I never would have imagined this moment in a million years. It doesn’t make sense. So I blot out all thoughts by mangling the lyrics along with Johnny. He sings in a crazy falsetto and we burst into laughter. Then we resume singing at the top of our lungs. Johnny opens the windows. Then he squeezes my hand.

  It all feels great. The wind whipping my hair. Johnny holding my hand. Screaming the lyrics.

  “ ‘Ohhh, I know you, I know what you do, you love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream!’ ”

  Strangely, our singing lulls the Chihuahua to sleep.

  All the nervousness I experienced at lunch has evaporated. I wish we’d taken a doggie bag with us because I am suddenly starving. I feel light and free and famished. Johnny must feel the same way because he gets off the 101 before our exit and drives along Ventura until he spots a French bistro.

  “What about her?” I say, pointing to the Chihuahua on my lap.

  “Let’s take her with us. She’s so small, no one will even notice.”

  We are scanning the menu when I see Amy. She’s sitting at a dark corner table, looking deeply into someone’s eyes. I stand to say hello to her when I see that the man across from her isn’t her husband. It’s a personal trainer I’ve seen a few times at the gym. His name’s Merritt and all the women talk about him in hushed tones as if he’s God, or at least Brad Pitt. His exercise regimen—a fusion of pilates, kickboxing, and Tai Chi—is a religion to them.

  Amy and Merritt are holding hands and grinning crazily at each other. I had been right all along. Amy doesn’t have migraines. She has a lover. A lover who is maybe twenty-five, at the most.

  I quickly sit back down and cover my face with the menu. She doesn’t see me. I don’t want her to. She’s doing what she’s doing and I don’t want to be part of her drama. If she sees me here, she’ll call me tomorrow, ask to meet with me, cry, beg me not to tell anyone, then tell me all her problems, confide in me when they finally break up. She’s such a cliché, I think. But then again, who am I to talk? A divorced woman whose husband had an affair. Is there anyone who is not a cliché? We think we’re so different. We struggle so hard to differentiate ourselves from everyone else on this spinning orb. But even being that person striving to be unique is just being another version of a cliché.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I whisper to Johnny.

  “Sounds good to me. I’m not big on Frog food anyway.”

  We order take out from In-N-Out Burger. Double double cheeseburgers. Chocolate milkshakes. Fries. Johnny drives to a side street off Ventura and we chow down right in the car. I slip my legs on top of Johnny’s as if I’ve done it a million times before. Then I take big delicious bite of my burger. But after just a few bites, I look over at Johnny and I’m not hungry anymore at all. I’m just horny. He’s staring hard at me. He leans in and we kiss.

  We make out in the car like teenagers. He kisses my neck, my face, my lips. His hands get underneath my shirt.

  I am a middle-aged mom of a six-year-old and I’m being felt up in my Volkswagen Passat. This is pure bliss.

  The Chihuahua begins to yip from the backseat.

  Back at my house, we practically fall on top of each other the minute I open the door. I pull off his shirt and kiss his chest. My hand massages his stomach. I’m surprised that he’s got a bit of a gut. I had expected a six-pack. But instead of being a turnoff, this arouses me even more. I like that he’s not a gym freak.

  I unbuckle his belt.

  Johnny moans. “You’re more aggressive than I expected.”

  “Beware. It’s been a long, long time,” I say, panting. “I might be a little rusty.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s just what I was thinking. Poor Rusty Alice,” Johnny says breathlessly. “I hope I won’t need a tetanus shot.”

  As soon as he pulls off my black lace underpants, the Chihuahua yips and yips and yips as if on cue. This was just the distraction I had prayed for at lunchtime, but it’s the last thing I want now. I want to ignore the little varmint and forge ahead. But she has other ideas. She keeps yipping and yipping. Then she makes a sound like she’s gurgling mouthwash.

  “Shit,” Johnny says. He sighs.

  “Flush her down the toilet and continue what we’re doing. Gabby will never know.”

  Johnny—wearing Fruit of the Loom briefs—gets up and heads toward the sofa where we’ve left the dog. He squats next to her and begins petting the dog and speaking gently to it. I wonder if I should get dressed and get up to help. The moment seems lost.

  As if reading my thoughts, Johnny says, “Don’t even think of moving. Stay exactly where you are. We’ve had our share of false starts.”

  Is he talking to me or the dog?

  He whispers something soothing to the dog and then pets her gently. I look at his hands. They’re big and strong with long, graceful fingers—another turn-on. I hate stumpy, dwarf-like digits on men. It’s almost too much for me to watch these strong hands petting this dog. It feels like I’m watching porno without the porno. I feel like I might explode.

  “Does she have a name yet?” He speaks in a whisper.

  “I guess I’ll leave that up to Gabby. I’m sure it will be something like Ariel or Cinderella. I just hope Gabby and I don’t scare it away.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it can get pretty loud here. You’ve probably seen it. Gabby has quite a temper.”

  He turns from the sofa and looks at me strangely. “Gabby? I don’t picture that at all. You guys are so calm.”

  I wonder if he’s being sarcastic, but then I understand he’s right. Gabby hasn’t had a temper tantrum in . . . well, I can’t even remember the last time. It has been calm here. There’s been no screaming. No slamming doors. No I-hate-yous. No drama in quite a long time. Maybe a Chihuahua would fit our temperament perfectly. Maybe this will all be easier than I thought.

  I smile so hard the muscles in my face ache.

  “What is it,” he asks.

  How do I answer this? “It’s complicated.”

  “Try me.”

  “Well,
I’m just really happy right now. But don’t be scared, I don’t mean because of you or anything.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I just mean that you’re not the sole reason for my happiness. I’m happy for so many reasons. Of course, you’re one of them. I’m happy that you’re here. But it’s more than that. I’m happy because I can be happy. Does that even make sense? For a while being happy seemed impossible.”

  The Chihuahua’s asleep again. Johnny had mentioned when we left Santa Ynez that he had special powers that could put a dog to sleep in minutes. He said this came in handy when he needed to get past guard dogs and trespass onto celebrity estates. I thought he was kidding around, but it seems his technique has worked with this as-yet-unnamed pooch.

  I am sitting up with Johnny’s T-shirt wrapped around me as I wait for him to take that long walk from the couch back to me. He comes toward me and pulls the shirt off. Then he takes in my body, pushes me down and kisses all of it, including my breasts, my stomach, my stretch-mark-riddled hips. My first impulse it to apologize for it. I want to say, “Sorry. I know my breasts are saggy, but I breastfed Gabby for six months and they’ve never been the same. But they were really perfect and perky a few years back. And my stomach? Well, it used to be flat and hard, but ever since I was pregnant, well, I haven’t been able to get rid of it, despite all the crunches at the gym. Ditto those stretch marks. They say shea butter prevents them. But that’s a downright lie, because I rubbed it on my belly and hips for nine months, and guess what? Didn’t work. But my skin used to be blemish free.”

  Shut up, Alice, I tell myself. Listen to Millie.

  Enjoy.

  Hump freely and without reservation.

  Which is exactly what I do.

  3

  Who Are You Supposed To Be?

  I have on a frilly, puffy, sparkly gown. I wear an enormous crown that looks like a silver chandelier perched atop my head. I carry a magic wand that lights up like a firework when I wave it. I look pretty ridiculous. It’s a costume I’ve cobbled together from some vintage stores on Sherman Way in Canoga Park. Each item seemed perfect on its own. Together, I’m not quite sure I know who I’m supposed to be. But I do look festive. I do look as though I’m in the spirit of things. And isn’t that all that really matters?

  Fake snow—resembling soap bubbles instead of flakes—swirls around me. I’m surrounded by mechanical princesses and fairies.

  It’s Christmas Eve in the Valley.

  We are putting the finishing touches on my front lawn. It looks incredible. Multicolored lights drape the house and the trees. A mechanical Cinderella lifts up her leg while an attendant prepares to slide a glass slipper on her foot. Snow White lays motionless as her prince leans in, frozen, his lips puckered. Sleeping Beauty prepares to dance with her prince. Fairies wait expectantly on the roof for the electricity to be switched on so they can pirouette and spin.

  Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas” blasts through a speaker. I recently read that Berlin’s infant son, Irving Berlin, Jr., died on Christmas Day. So when I hear this song I think about the bad connotations it must have had for the Berlin family. Christmastime was probably never happy or merry or—since they lived in Los Angeles—white, for that matter. But soon “Deck the Halls” begins and I put these thoughts out of my head. We all sing or hum along.

  Johnny has a friend who is a set designer. He loaned us the princesses, the fairies, the snow machine. Everything.

  Gabby will be returning from Salt Lake City any minute and I want this perfect. The lights. The princesses. The fairies. The snow. The carols. It doesn’t look like my house anymore, but a fairy tale trapped in a snowstorm. A perfect fairy tale for a six-year-old. It’s exactly what Gabby had envisioned for the house last year when I opted for inflatable abominable snowmen instead.

  But alas, yesterday I was reminded of how fleeting a child’s wishes can be.

  Gabby called to tell me that she hopes Santa doesn’t bring her princess clothes this year.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Well, princesses are for babies. I’m a big girl now,” she said.

  “What?”

  “It’s true, Mommy. I’m almost seven. I wanna get a Hannah Montana poster for my bedroom.”

  Another little death. Another phase outgrown.

  Ruth puts a big red bow on the as-yet-unnamed dog’s head. At least Gabby didn’t say she no longer wanted a Chihuahua. Nancy and her kids are struggling to upright Ariel, but her fin makes it impossible. Renee passes out egg nog. Trinity visits with a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. She’s leaving in the morning for Manila, for the holidays and her daughter’s wedding. She hasn’t seen her daughter in ten years, she tells me.

  “The last time I see Melissa, he was Gabby’s age. Now he getting married. My family has grown up without me,” she tells me. “Soon I will be a grandmother.”

  I cringe. Trinity is only a few years older than I am.

  Johnny is on the roof, plugging in the last string of lights. He looks so handsome in his leather jacket and Santa Claus hat. Yesterday, he spent the entire day and night. We never left the house—no details necessary. But halfway through the day, we flopped on the couch, exhausted, and watched It’s a Wonderful Life. No matter what, that movie always gets me. When Harry says that George is the richest man in town, I lose it. Never fails. There George stands in the midst of this eclectic group of friends and family and he realizes he has everything in the world to live for. I’ve watched this movie every year for as long as I can remember, except for last year. It came on, and for a while I struggled through it, but halfway in I knew the magic had been lost for me. Nothing about my life had seemed wonderful. I couldn’t quite understand why George just didn’t off himself. But next year I want Gabby to watch it with me. “See, you don’t need a handsome prince. You can be rescued by your friends. By their love,” I’ll tell her.

  Two days ago, I went to see Faye to say good-bye. Just when I started believing she was psychic, she decides to move to Sonoma.

  “I don’t want to be a psychic in L.A. anymore,” she offered by way of explanation. “Everyone here wants me to tell them they’ll sell the screenplay or the TV pilot or get the role in the movie. When I don’t, they get angry at me. People in other parts of the country just want the truth.”

  She studied me. “You look radiant, Alice. What’s going on?”

  I told her how I just converted Mom’s guest house into an office. My public relations company is taking off, partly because I’m damned good at what I do and partly because every mom in the Valley is looking for press for their start-up businesses. I’ve been so busy, I’ve hired Claire part-time (she had a baby and wanted to scale back anyway). She takes over when Gabby returns from school. That’s part of my deal with Gabby.

  “What will I do without you, Faye?” I asked. “Everything you predicted is coming true and now that I believe in you, you’re leaving. It’s not fair.”

  Faye laughed. “Do you want to know my secret?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “The truth about psychics is that we’re all psychics. You. Me. Ruth. The Winnie the Pooh mom. Gabby. Everyone. Why do you think your friend Johnny took photos of someone else’s wedding on his wedding day? Because he knew his marriage would be doomed. But very few people appreciate their psychic ability. Psychics are the only ones who truly understand this and tap into it.”

  I nodded.

  “Think about it.” She laughed. “Maybe it’s a government conspiracy. Maybe if people understood that they could predict the future, they wouldn’t be so afraid of everything. And then they wouldn’t need the government to give them a false feeling of security.”

  I looked at Faye like she was nuts.

  “Alice, did you ever notice the noise? You can’t think with all the noise out there. It’s in your car. In the mall. In the stores. In the restaurants. On the street. Just as you’re humming one song, you enter a new place to be bombarded with anoth
er song. And these teenagers today don’t have a chance. They have on their iPods while they text message their friends who are standing right next to them. Or they’re on MySpace or Facebook. Soon there’ll be no such thing as psychic ability.”

  “That’s why I need you here. If I could predict the future, none of this would have happened.”

  Faye hugs me tight. “Best of luck, Alice,” she says cryptically.

  “What does that mean?”

  She laughed. “You know. You’ve always known.”

  My heart thumped wildly. I wanted to ask her about Johnny, but I was terrified.

  “What is it, Alice?”

  I opened my mouth, but the words felt stuck in my throat.

  “Alice?”

  “Well, Johnny,” I blurted.

  She downright guffawed.

  “What?”

  She touched my cheek. “Look at yourself, Alice. You can’t help but smile when you say his name. You figure it out.”

  If Faye is right and I am psychic, then I feel very good about the future with Johnny. He’s a former sleazy photographer who left his bride at the altar. He stalked me on the worst day of my life. He harassed lots of people. He’s loathed by celebrities. There are no pretenses with Johnny. Maybe that counts for something. He told me exactly who he is, and I believe him. Plus, he talked Barbies with Gabby for hours—that’s more than I could ever do.

  An enormous white star on the house above us lights up. The people who have moved into the porn house have created a nativity scene with a crèche and real lambs whose bleating can be heard throughout our impressionist neighborhood. I guess Bob Stone was so disturbed by whatever Faye told him that he moved somewhere else. Anyway, the young couple who live there have no idea about their house’s past. The wife is pregnant and due in a few weeks. They’re born-again Christians, the wife told me when I rang her doorbell with a casserole last week. She explained to me that when her husband Ronnie walked into the house, he knew it was perfect for them.